


song of the open road

by oopshidaisy



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Time, M/M, Origin Story, Period-Typical Racism, Poetry, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, billy likes listening to shakespeare and whitman, goody gets turned on by billy killing people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 15:05:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8537713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oopshidaisy/pseuds/oopshidaisy
Summary: The story of how they fall together, over and over.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title is the name of the walt whitman poem that goodnight quotes right at the end. goodnight's favourite sonnet is sonnet 71 [No longer mourn for me when I am dead] and billy's is sonnet 18 [Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?] both by Shakespeare (and both written about a dude bc shakespeare was bi as heck and i love being a lit student)
> 
> i need the film to come out already so i can verify half of the backstory i've included in this.
> 
> disclaimers: i am british and the characters are american and korean respectively so.......that's gotta be good. additionally, i'm white and there is one scene where a character (who is depicted as racist) uses some mild racial slurs (nothing worse than what was in the actual film). if that's a problem, please leave a comment and we can get it sorted out.

Traveling with another person wasn’t something Billy had considered when he’d finally escaped a life of servitude; he’d wanted, fiercely, more than anything, to be alone. He’d killed for money when he needed it and had simply wandered, thoughtlessly, from town to town when he didn’t.

So when he’d walked into this bar, acquiring a companion had been the furthest thing from his mind. He’d been practically clinical in disposing of his targets: three men who were wanted from here to New York for various crimes. There’d been another couple who’d gotten in the way and so he’d killed them, too, although he’s regretting that now. Civilian deaths always make things a little bit trickier. And so do charming men who can’t mind their own damn business.

Billy should be riding off into the goddamn sunset by now. Instead, he’s actually considering leaving with this guy.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll stab you in your sleep?” he says. All they’ve had by way of an introduction, after all, is Billy systematically murdering people. It’s beyond him why this man hasn’t run out to get the sheriff yet, like the rest of the bar’s patrons did as soon as the first knife was embedded in its target’s neck.

“I haven’t been afraid of nothing like that for a long time.”

Billy shrugs. “You got a horse?”

The man’s face breaks out into a wider grin. “You came here to kill five people and you didn’t even bring your own horse?”

Billy rolls his eyes. “I’m resourceful,” he says.

“You sure are.”

*

“The name’s Goodnight Robicheaux.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Goodnight’s laughter is easy to earn, Billy’s discovering. “I know you didn’t, but we’re already sharing a horse. We might as well know each other’s names.”

“Fine. Billy Rocks.”

“Alright, Billy Rocks, where d’you want to go?”

Billy considers it. “I didn’t really have a destination in mind,” he says eventually, looking out at the dying light, at the pinks and oranges spilling over the horizon. He thinks he might like to just keep riding until the last glimmer of light is wrenched from the distance and then he wants to sit and stare up at the stars until dawn returns.

“We’ll have to stop soon, set up camp,” Goodnight says.

Billy nods, even though Goodnight can’t see him. “Here?” he suggests after a short while, adjusting his grip on the other man’s waist.

“Are you sure? We’re not so far from the town, and they might come looking for us yet,” Goodnight says.

“Let them,” Billy says, unconcerned. “They’ll have a harder time killing me than they might think.”

“I daresay they will,” Goodnight responds. “You know, I was supposed to bring you in.”

Billy allows himself a moment of surprise. “Why didn’t you?”

“Well,” Goodnight says, “besides the fact that if I’d tried I’d become well-acquainted with what my guts look like?”

“Yes, besides that.”

“I suppose I’m not really sure yet,” he says. “All I know, Mister Rocks, is that when I look at you I see someone I’d rather befriend than apprehend.”

*

When Billy wakes, it’s to the smell of smoke and sizzling meat.

“Goody?” he mumbles, and the man laughs.

“You know, my sister used to call me that,” he says. “When we were little, she wasn’t too good at pronouncing the whole thing. Anyway, I’m making breakfast. Do you want some?”

“Mm.”

“You’re even more hyper-verbal than you were last night,” Goodnight says sarcastically. “How long before we get past the silent phase?”

Billy sits up and regards Goodnight, hunched over the fire with his hat tipped low over his eyes. “Did you sleep?” Billy asks.

“A little,” Goody says. It sounds like the truth, but Billy doesn’t know this man well enough yet to make head or tails of it, so he lets it slip by without additional comment. “So anyway, there’s a town a couple of miles away we can pass through, and I’ve been thinking about it – I think I got an idea about how we can make some cash.”

Billy raises an eyebrow.

*

They travel around the mid-west like that, Billy demonstrating elaborate ways of out-drawing arrogant men with Goody collecting the winnings, preying on people’s misguided expectations of exactly what Billy is and isn’t capable of.

A couple of months turns into a year turns into two, and Billy finds himself – unexpectedly – not growing tired of the companionship. If anything, he just wants to get closer.

They’ve fucked around a couple of times, a handful of broken-off kisses and bringing each other off underneath the stars. Every time, they’ve both been too drunk for it to be a topic of conversation the next morning. But Billy finds himself looking down at Goody’s lips when he’s sober, wanting his hands on him more often than every few months. It’s becoming a distraction.

He’d probably be able to forget if he didn’t _like_ Goodnight, as a person. He likes Goody’s ridiculous jokes and his endless soliloquizing and his brash, loud nature. And – fuck – he _loves_ Goody’s hands in his hair, his mouth latched onto the dips of Billy’s collarbones; he loves the weight of Goody’s cock in his hand, and it’s really starting to become a problem. Sometimes he thinks Goody catches him staring, but it’s hard to sort between the lines of the man’s bravado and figure out what could be genuine.

Like when Billy wins one of their fights and Goody comes out with, “I could _kiss_ you,” eyes bright and confusing, “but I’ll settle for buying you a drink.”

“It’s my money, too,” Billy says, “you can’t technically buy me anything.”

“Right you are,” Goody replies. “I’ll have to think of another reward for you.”

And after more drinks than they’d intended they stumble into the room they’d bought for the night and Goody sucks him off, quick and messy, with his fingers carving bruises into Billy’s thighs. Billy chokes out Goody’s name when he comes, and the look on Goody’s face when he sits back on his haunches is like the cat who got the cream. “That good enough for you?” he says, wicked grin spreading across spit-slick lips. Billy can’t help but kiss him, then, shoving a hand into Goody’s pants and making him come with only a few strokes. Goody’s beautiful when he loses control, Billy thinks. He almost wishes he didn’t know how beautiful.

*

Goody can’t sleep without a gun within arm’s reach, although Billy knows now that he’d sooner chop off his own fingers than pull the trigger. When he’d first learned that Goody was a Confederate soldier – was known as the Angel of Death – it had come as a shock. He’d never seen Goody handle the gun he wore like a shield, had barely even thought about the life Goody had led before they met. Obviously he was aware of the nightmares; they slept too close for Billy to be entirely ignorant of those, but he’d tamped his curiosity down and waited. Goody had only told him when the nickname had been yelled over at him in the middle of a bar, and he’d gone entirely still, like prey about to bolt. Billy had put a hand on his arm. (“Do you want to leave?” “Please.”)

“We’ve all done things we regret,” Billy said, with what he hoped was reassurance.

“You have no idea,” Goody replied, voice darker than Billy had ever heard it before.

So he’s suggested, more than once, teaching Goody how to handle a knife instead. They sleep out in the open most nights, in places that it would be idiotic to assume are free from outlaws and murderers. They can never assume safety, and if Goody can’t shoot a gun, Billy would rather he protects himself some other way. He’s already proficient with a knife as a tool, uses one to kill and skin small animals, but he’s not quite at the stage where he’d consider it an ideal weapon in a life or death situation.

But Goody refuses the tutelage, and if Billy didn’t know better he might think it’s out of some misplaced sense of pride. It’s closing in on three years they’ve been together, though, and he’s cast off most of the erroneous assumptions people tend to make about Goodnight. The truth, he thinks, is that Goody just doesn’t want to learn any more ways of killing anyone.

*

They sit smoking under a tree and Goody says, “You ever think about fucking me?”

Billy takes a long draw of smoke. “All the time,” he says. “And the other way, too.”

*

He knows better than to push Goody into picking up some new form of self-defense. The man’s enough of a whirlwind of paranoia and trauma without Billy making it worse, pressing hyper-vigilance on the man he loves simply out of a desperate desire to keep him safe.

But it’s difficult, because they’ve come close enough a few times that Billy can practically see it – Goodnight saying exactly the wrong thing and the draw of a gun too quick for Billy to react. Goody has a habit of pissing people off when he gets loud and bawdy and he’s been stared at down the barrel of a gun more than once since Billy has known him.

One time it happens because Goody slips, grins open and wide at Billy and places a hand over his. It’s nothing major but they’ve traveled as far down as Texas and forgetting to be careful of appearances somewhere like this is deadly – they _know_ it’s deadly. So when a white man squares up it’s unsurprising, his “you treat that Oriental awful nice” far from the worst Billy might’ve expected.

But of course Goody can’t let it slide. “What did you call him?” he asks sharply.

“You heard me. You and your Chinaman seem pretty fucking chummy.”

“He’s from Korea,” Goody corrects. “And he’s not _mine_. Now, if you don’t mind…” His attempts to move past are thwarted, however, by the bulk of the man and by the emergence of two similarly large men. Billy’s hand drops to his belt, feeling for the hilt of a knife there.

“You ain’t going anywhere ‘til you show ‘im who’s boss,” the man insists. The other two jeer in unison, egging him on. “Make him lick your boot, that should show ‘im.”

“No,” Goodnight says, voice steelier than Billy’s ever heard it. “Now let us go.”

“Goody…” Billy murmurs. His voice only seems to further enrage the man, who draws his gun from its holster and presses it into Goody’s stomach before Billy has time to react. His reactions are slower, four shots of whiskey down. In this moment, he feels devastatingly sober.

“Lick his fucking boot,” the man says. The entire bar is quiet, watching. Of course no one offers to help. Billy begins to bend down.

“Billy…” Goody says, horror lacing through his tone. “Please don’t.”

Almost before he finishes the sentence, Billy takes advantage of the brief distraction, lunging at the hand holding the gun and slicing through the skin of the man’s wrist. He makes sure the weapon’s been dropped before he throws the two knives stowed in his boots into the other two men’s guts. Finally, he picks up the gun and shoots the ringleader in the temple. It takes only a few seconds.

“Let’s go,” he tells Goody, who still looks shaken.

They ride out of town and don’t stop for hours, not speaking to one another. Billy feels the breeze whipping through his hair and wills away a headache. He tries not to think about the savage joy he’d felt, killing – it hasn’t been like that since he’d cut down his captors, once upon a time. Now everything feels too close to the surface again. He can barely breathe.

When they stop, after an unspoken mutual decision that they’re far enough away, Goody finally speaks.

“You…killed them,” he says.

“The two I stabbed might live,” Billy replies, although they both know that’s unlikely. “And the other one was going to shoot you.”

Goody’s kissing him, then, hard and fierce and whispering “I’m sorry” in between hard presses of lips. Then his words become a jumble of apologies and ‘I love you’s, and Billy begins to remember how to exhale.

*

As long as Billy sleeps with one eye open, they’ll be safe. For now.

They don’t often share a bed, what with Goody’s night terrors and Billy’s constant coiled tension, but they’re never far apart enough for Billy to worry. Even if he didn’t have the motivation of Goody’s steady breaths that skirt the edge of a snore, Billy would sleep with a hand on the hilt of his knife. Call it a habit. In that way, they’re a perfect team.

When they sleep out in the open, however, they’re rarely more than a meter apart. There’s just something about being that far from civilization that has Billy intertwining their bodies, waking up with his head on Goody’s chest, their limbs a messy tangle. Sometimes, on those mornings, Billy falls asleep again while Goodnight traces patterns on his skin. Other times they wake slowly while mapping one another’s bodies with kisses that spell out impossible words.

It has become so that Billy can’t imagine how he existed before all of this.

*

One thing most people don’t realize is that for all his outward stoicism, Billy’s not immune from the same breed of terror that grips his partner. On occasion, it’s like his hand forgets the perfect fit it has around a knife, forgets the constellation of muscles and skin and pressure that it takes to kill a man. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens enough. Enough that Goody’s seen it happen.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, gruffly, the first time. There was a harsh edge to his voice, a tense thread encircling the words.

“It’s not important,” Billy replied, right hand still afflicted with the faintest hint of a tremor.

“It’s not – ” Goody’s frustration and worry cracked the words wide open. “It’s important if it puts you in _danger_ , you stubborn fucking…”

“You don’t have to protect me.”

Goody’s laugh was bitter, as bitter as Billy had ever heard it. “God knows I can’t, mon chéri. I would rather you be able to protect yourself.”

As if Billy hadn’t still won that fight, hadn’t gotten away with scarcely a scratch. (Admittedly, this was still in dispute. Goody was of the opinion that a bullet’s graze surpassed what most Americans would consider ‘a scratch’. In fairness, however, Billy considered most Americans to be either cowards or simpletons, or some mixture of the two. He didn’t put much stock in how they chose to define anything.)

They rarely have such arguments anymore. Billy’s become attuned to his own limits, has reconciled with the once humiliating idea that a certain gesture can send him spinning back in time, back to a place where he was helpless in a way he will never again allow himself to be.

“Do you think I’m a coward?” Goody had asked lazily, words floating out in a wisp of blue-tinged smoke. It took Billy a moment to even register the words – he had a tendency to become somewhat distracted when Goody was smoking.

“Of course not,” he said stiffly, not appreciating the leading nature of the question.

“Not even when I have the nightmares? When I can’t shoot a gun?”

Billy shot him a sharp look. “You cannot help that.”

“Then why, if I may ask, would you think less of yourself for getting scared sometimes?”

That’s not quite the right way to describe it – for all of Goodnight Robicheaux’s famed eloquence, the lexis of panic escapes him in the same way that the cure does. Billy’s felt fear, but he’s also felt the hot, debilitating whips of paralytic flashbacks. He knows there’s a wider cavern of difference between the two than it’s possible to describe. It’s not simply fear that invades Goody’s dreams, it’s a far more poisonous submersion into that which has already occurred. If it were only fear, Billy might have figured out a way to make it stop.

He thinks they all fall victim to it, at one point or another. You can’t have blood on your hands without a reaction to its stain: for all their tough talk, they’re all human. They’re all a bit fucked up.

*

Like when Billy kills a circle of four men, his knives flashing lethally through the air and glinting with their silver purpose, lodging precisely into the men’s throats within the space of a few heartbeats. The attackers’ blood sprays feebly over the dusty ground, and Goody backs Billy up against the wall of the back of the saloon and kisses him so hard that the force of it reverberates throughout Billy’s body, throws him briefly off-balance. Within the span of the time it takes for him to regain his senses, Goody’s on his knees in front of him and he’s got that wicked little smile on his lips that usually makes its appearance after he’s told a particularly splendid lie. “Go on, then,” Billy says, and Goody makes quick work of his pants like he’s hungry for what’s underneath.

Billy closes his eyes because there’s really nothing he’s comfortable looking at right now, and his hand threads through Goody’s hair when Goody sinks down, mouth slick over Billy’s – still soft – dick. Goody makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a hum, vibration making Billy’s hips jerk of their own accord, sheathing himself further in the wet heat between Goody’s lips.

“Steady on there,” Goody grins as he pulls back, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He looks thoroughly debauched already, pupils intoxicated and lips slick, red. If Billy hadn’t been with him all day he’d think he was high, but he’s got a sense that there’s another reason for the fevered energy that’s radiating from his partner, shimmering hot in the air between them.

“You’re full of surprises, Goodnight,” he mentions conversationally, even as his hand guides Goody back down to where he wants him. He can feel Goody’s pleased shiver when he uses his full name, can feel the way the authoritative tone affects the man (who, if asked, would never admit to such a thing). He continues, voice soft enough that it won’t carry: “You’ll have to be quick, _nae_ _sarang_ , unless you want someone to catch us.”

Goody’s tongue catches against his slit as he pulls off again for the obligatory smart-ass reply. “See, if I had to guess what that means, I’d think it was something so sappy you’d be embarrassed to say it in English. Am I right?”

“As usual, no,” Billy responds dryly. “It means you’re an idiot.”

Goody considers him. “And people call _me_ the liar,” he says, smirking. “Admit it, or I’ll leave you here with your dick hanging out.”

“You wouldn’t,” Billy grins back.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t,” Goody admits, ghosting a kiss against Billy’s thigh. “I love your dick too much for that.”

In retaliation, Billy threads his fingers through the strands of hair behind his partner’s ear and pulls. The success of the gesture is debatable if Goody’s groan is anything to go by. He does, however, get his hand around Billy, cleverly coaxing him to full hardness. “ _There_ you go,” he breathes, kissing the side of Billy’s shaft. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

“Shut up,” Billy retorts, sagging against the wall when Goody sucks him down again. It’s quick after that, a little sloppy – spit running down the corners of Goody’s mouth and Billy’s breath hitching faster until it breaks. He comes without noise, which isn’t unusual, his hand tightening in Goody’s hair and his legs shaking with the force of it. Goody, for his part, sucks him dry before standing, claiming Billy’s mouth and sharing the taste between them.

“Please,” Goody starts, and then takes a moment before he says, “When we get back to the room, can you fuck me?”

Billy raises his eyebrows. They don’t do this a lot, for mostly practical reasons (an example: the considerable amount of horse-riding they do). Goody likes to joke that he saves getting fucked for ‘special occasions’. Billy likes to joke that his partner is a fucking idiot.

“Look, if you’re gonna mention how apparently I get turned on by you killing people, can you…not?”

“You watch me kill people all the time,” Billy says. “And yes, I will.”

“You’re not…you don’t think it’s weird?” Goodnight asks, only a fissure of uncertainty amongst his bravado.

“You have been, as you say, _turned on_ by many strange things,” Billy shrugs. “If I minded, I would not be here.”

Goody stares at him for a second in disbelief. “I have no idea what I did to deserve you,” he says. “I must’ve been some kinda saint in my other life.” He steps away from Billy to retrieve the knives that are still lodged in the necks of their victims while Billy tidies himself up. As Goody steps up close to place the knives back in his belt, he brushes his fingers deliberately over the sensitive bulge between his legs.

“I…hate you,” Billy chokes out. “Fuck, get off.”

“Planning on it,” Goody grins.

They make it back up to their room without Goody breaking any notions of public decency, although his eyes are still the slightest bit glazed. When Billy backs him up onto the bed his grin is sharp and fierce. “Do your worst,” he says.

Billy rolls his eyes but gets to work stripping Goody of his clothes, crowding in close and trading teasing kisses without ever allowing Goody to sink into them the way he always does, so easy when his barriers come down. He presses his thigh in between Goody’s leg, pushing just enough that Goody humps mindlessly down, hips circling in helpless, jerky movements. Billy smiles, just on the edge of predatory. He redirects his attention to Goody’s neck, sucking marks just light enough that they’ll fade within the hour. He always ends up being the practical one. Goody, in the meantime, writhes like he doesn’t know which direction to lean into, jerks when Billy lowers his mouth to bite right over his nipple. Billy’s pretty sure the look he ends up leveling his partner with is half exasperated, half fond. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Where’s the oil?” he asks.

“Under the bed,” Goody replies, just a hint breathless. “Please…”

Billy presses a finger to his lips as he leans down to grab the small jar they keep the slick in. “Be considerate of the neighbors,” he says. Goody laughs in a short bark, amusement softening the urgency in his eyes.

Goody makes quick work of his pants, scrambling onto his stomach and Billy perches over the backs of his thighs, smoothing deft palms over the tension in his back. In response, Goody groans into the mattress, the sound muffled enough that Billy doesn’t worry about it carrying. “Just fuck me already,” he sighs, drawing a laugh out of Billy.

“I believe it was you who once told me ‘patience is a virtue’,” he says.

“I’m a goddamn idiot, Billy, why would you ever listen to a word I say?”

Whenever Billy laughs it’s like he’s been startled into it, and now he lets the sound run on as he eases the first finger into Goody. Goody stretches his legs farther apart in response, tries to grind down on the single digit.

“You’re okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, using one of the American terms of affection he’s found himself liking; Goody responds by moaning softly into the pillow, relaxed and loose enough that Billy tucks a second finger into his ass, pumps slowly in and out, knowing full well that the pace is agonising for Goody.

“Cruel,” he says, biting down on the inside of his wrist. “What have I ever done to deserve this?”

“Today, or in the past week?” Billy responds. Goody chuckles brokenly, voice catching when Billy hits his prostate dead-on.

Billy’s still the slightest bit over-sensitized from their excursion in the alley, but he finds himself responding to the litany of curses that pour from Goody’s mouth, blood pooling low and hot. He’s still mostly clothed, sweat sticking his shirt to his back. He uses his free hand to undo the buttons, smiling when Goody tries to crane his head and look.

“Another finger?” he suggests.

“If you insist,” Goody responds, as if he’s not actively thrusting into the mattress as he speaks. Billy can’t help the simple adoration that sweeps through him as he looks down at the man he loves; although they aren’t normally prone to such declarations, he mouths the three words into the skin of Goody’s shoulder. He knows with absolute clarity that Goody hears them.

“Hands and knees,” he instructs, gentler than he intends. He supposes if there’s one occasion he’ll indulge in sentimentality, this is it.

Goody obliges happily, hair hanging loose in front of his eyes and lips bitten red. “Get inside me, Rocks,” he says, and Billy lets out another startled laugh, slapping his partner lightly on the ass. Goody responds with an exaggerated moan, exacerbating Billy’s fit of amusement.

“You’re ridiculous, Robicheaux,” he says between giggles. He tucks three fingers into Goody while he slicks himself up, effectively cutting off whatever smart-ass response the man had been formulating.

When he finally begins pushing in, Goody’s response is immediate and loud, enough that Billy presses his palm over Goodnight’s mouth, shushing him while still driving inexorably forward, until he’s sheathed up to his hips in the heat of Goody’s body. With the advantage of Goody’s forced silence, he starts talking. “You look beautiful like this,” he murmurs, ignoring the part of him that rebels against sentimentalism. “So good for me. You’d give me anything I wanted, wouldn’t you?”

Goody nods frantically, letting out a sound that might be an attempt at the word ‘move’, muffled as it is.

“Sorry, can’t hear you,” Billy says, even though he’s itching to just fuck Goody, quick and hard the way he likes, harsh enough to make the headboard slap against the wall. After a couple more tantalizing seconds, he does. He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, keeping his hand fixed firmly over Goody’s mouth (fortuitously, since Goody immediately emits a kind of mix between a moan and a whine). “Slut,” Billy smiles, half a joke and half a way to turn Goody on even more. His cock’s a deep red where it’s hard against his stomach, and he jerks helplessly when Billy wraps a hand around it, garbled syllables issuing into the skin of Billy’s palm.

His thrusts are more deep than fast, but Goodnight seems to love it if the way he tries to grind back is any indication, and before long Billy knows his partner is right on the edge, dick leaking a steady stream of pre-come against Billy’s fingers. “You close?” he whispers, finally removing his hand so Goody can reply.

“ _Yes_ ,” the other man hisses, and Billy laces their fingers together, biting at Goody’s shoulder and snapping his hips hard until Goody lets out a choked-off moan, coming hard over both their hands and the sheets. Billy slows his pace but Goody manages to say, “Keep going,” broken and stammered even as his body sags towards the bed. Billy holds him up with a palm across his chest, knowing better than to ask if he’s sure. It’s five or six more thrusts before Billy tenses up, emptying himself into Goody’s ass with a low sound that he can’t quite contain.

They both collapse into a pile of sweaty limbs after that, breathing heavy and satisfied. When he’s regained something of himself Billy reaches over for a cigarette, lighting it up and placing it between Goody’s lips before his own. He sits up against the headboard and guides Goody in between his legs. They pass the smoke back and forth, stretching lazily into the afterglow.

“We should do that more often,” Goody says.

Billy grins. “That can be arranged.”

*

It’s pointless to make a big deal over such harmless eccentricities, and if Goody’s eyes continue to darken every time Billy fells multiple attackers with a flick of his wrists and a couple of sharpened knives, it’s barely worth mentioning. (Except for when Billy wants to make Goody blush, wants to rile him up in public. It works like a charm every time.)

Besides, it’s not as though Billy is without his weaknesses where Goodnight Robicheaux is concerned. Namely…

“Shakespeare, _really_?” Goody grins, twisting a lock of Billy’s raven hair between his fingers. “Now _that’s_ interesting.”

Billy immediately regrets saying anything. “Don’t make this something it’s not,” he warns.

And then Goody’s tilting his head to the side, considering. “It’s not a sex thing, then,” he says, rolling the idea around on his tongue. “So it’s…?”

“It relaxes me. Hearing your voice, the words – they rise and fall and it’s like the ocean, sometimes. It’s peaceful.” He doesn’t know how to express it, quite. His mother had sung him poetry when he was a child and her soft, lilting voice had lulled him to sleep on a number of nights. Of course, the poems she had recited were in their native tongue, easy for him to understand.

Goody, on the other hand, will break into verse whenever he’s in the mood, with a seeming catalog of sonnets committed to memory. Some of what Billy loves is the part where he gets Goody to slow down and explain the meanings behind that particular arrangement of words, that particular obscure image. And he loves that most of the time, it’s Goody’s way of finding an expression of how much he loves him.

“Which is your favorite?” he asks Goody now. They’re out beneath an inky expanse of sky, with nothing around them for miles except their horses and their few possessions, scattered across the clearing.

“It didn’t used to be,” Goody starts, and Billy feels his swallow more than he sees it. They’re so close, luxuriating in not having to monitor the extent of their affection.

 _“No longer mourn for me when I am dead_  
_Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell_  
_Give warning to the world that I am fled_  
_From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:_  
_Nay, if you read this line, remember not_  
_The hand that writ it; for I love you so_  
_That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot_  
_If thinking on me then should make you woe._  
_O, if, I say, you look upon this verse_  
_When I perhaps compounded am with clay,_  
_Do not so much as my poor name rehearse._  
_But let your love even with my life decay;_  
_Lest the wise world should look into your moan_  
_And mock you with me after I am gone.”_

Billy twisted his fingers into Goody’s. “It’s a little melancholy,” he offers.

“A little,” Goody concedes. “But it’s also about him saying that he loves another person so much that he doesn’t even want them to mourn him when he’s dead. I never understood what that felt like until…well.”

“I would mourn you,” Billy says, which is all he has to say on the matter; he doesn’t like thinking about Goody leaving him. “I think I prefer the other one, the _Shall I compare…_ ”

“… _thee to a summer’s day_?” Goody strokes a thumb over the back of his hand. “You’re in good company. That’s a lot of people’s favorite, my sister included. But it’s about death, too.”

“It seems all anyone writes about is death,” Billy says. “I remember that. What about that other one, do you remember any of his?”

“There _are_ more than two poets, you know,” Goody smiles, although he knows which one Billy means. “Hmm, let me see. I haven’t really had time to memorize it all yet. I only know how it ends.”

“That’s enough. I don’t need more than that.”

“ _Camerado, I give you my hand! /I give you my love more precious than money, /I give you myself before preaching or law; /Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me? /Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?_ ”

“Yes,” Billy says, “that’s the one.” And he settles back against Goody’s chest, closes his eyes.

“ _Allons_ ,” Goody whispers, “ _the road is before us._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked it, let me know!! comments make my day 
> 
> my tumblr's elliehopes and my twitter is @Ellie_Hopes if you want to contact me there xx


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